Friday Poem


I will rend my garments like a prophet,
Cover my head with ashes.
I’ll wail if it means you might hear my cry.
I am the patient and the doctor,
The thief and the victim,
The undertaker and the mourner,
The one gasping and the one outside the door.
I am all these things as surely as you are
The creator and destroyer,
The god who eases pain and delivers it,
The god I loved as a child before I had reason,
And now love against it.
I pray to the god who was the soft whisper
after the storm:
I pray to you to hear us, see us,
And weep for us. Weep with us.
God, weep.
If it is true you made us in your image and we have made you in ours,
then there is no hope: you are as reckless as we.
But if is true you are that which passes understanding,
unutterable, unriven, unassailable, inconceivable,
Then to you, I humble myself,
And beg for grace.
Not my will but thy will be done.
I relegate the future, the present and all our poor fates into your hands,
And trust because I must
Not that there is a reason
But that we can survive even without one.

by Julio Cho
from 3Views Theater